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"... Scenes like these Have almost lived before me, when I gazed Upon their fair resemblance traced by him Who sung the banished man of Ardebeil, Or to the eye of Fancy held by her, Who among Women left no equal mind When from the world she passed; and I could weep To think that She is to the grave gone down!"
Let me have the pleasure, dear chap, of introducing you to my friend, Major Burnham-Seaforth. Major, you are at last in the presence of the gentleman of whom I spoke Mr. Cleek." "Mr. Cleek, I am delighted," said the Major, offering his hand. "I have heard your praises sung so continuously the past two hours that I feel as if I already knew you."
And all this after I had sung the 'Song of the Overlord! So much for its ill-luck. But, all the same, my father was rather upset when he heard that I had been found singing it. He is very superstitious, my dear old father; that is one of the few Norse characteristics which he has left in him. I told him that there was no use in being disturbed, since, in the end, things must go as they are fated.
"I will bind up your poor little leg, and Zephyr shall rock you to sleep." So she folded the cool leaves tenderly about the poor fly, bathed his wings, and brought him refreshing drink, while he hummed his thanks, and forgot his pain, as Zephyr softly sung and fanned him with her waving wings.
He didn't forget me when they sent me to jail. Neither did Mary. She sung for me." "Can't you tell me Mary's name?" "Why, it's just Mary, Mary Yardwell." "Where does she live?" "Oh, don't bother me," he replied irritably. "What do you want to know for?" The princess softly persisted, and he said: "She lives in the East. In Chicago. It's too far off to find her.
They sing mass fairly well, especially the tone Royal, and the mass for the dead. Some persons may be surprised at this, and perhaps harbor a doubt of it, but I can testify as a witness to its truth. More than a hundred times they have sung it for me.
All ages and all epics have sung of arms and the man; but we have effected simultaneously the deterioration of the man and the fantastic perfection of the arms. Militarism demonstrated the decadence of Rome, and it demonstrates the decadence of Prussia. And unconsciously Mr. Kipling has proved this, and proved it admirably.
"I shall sleep fast for an hour or two this morning and make it up," he told Paula. "I do wish you might have been there last night," she said after a little silence. "I don't believe I've ever sung so well; could have, at least, if there had been room enough to turn around in. It was all there; it's getting bigger all the time.
When the simple services over our own dead were complete one of the girls would say: "Now, friends, let us go and say a prayer beside our enemy's graves. They are some mother's boys, and some woman is waiting for them to come home!" And then the prayers would be said once more, and another song sung. Those were solemn, sorrowful times, death and destruction on every side.
For seven days the great festival had been celebrated, the suffering of the Lord Osiris had been commemorated, the grief of the Mother Isis had been sung and glory had been done to the memory of the coming of the Divine Child Horus, the Son, the Avenger, the God-begot. All these things had been carried out according to the ancient rites.
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